


Constant

by jane_potter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Genderbending, Historical, M/M, Porn Battle, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 4004, and nobody on Earth-- two humans and an angel, at the moment-- knows exactly why they're counting down the years instead of up. Not yet. The sky is huge and the air is heavy with nectar and the sweetness of overabundant fruit decaying in the lush grass. The angel beams like an excited Child (not that anybody knows what children are yet, either) as a fat, fuzzy Bee bumbles peacefully past his face, leaving a dusting of gold pollen on his eyelashes.</p>
<p>He's distracted, and almost misses it: the parting of lush grasses, the hiss of scales over earth, and the flash of a thick, muscular coil through the undergrowth. Sunlight shining off scales in a shade so deeply tinted that they're nearly black.</p>
<p>He never does end up reporting the Serpent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constant

**Author's Note:**

> Written for oxoniensis' Porn Battle 11. Prompts: spectacles, armchair, discovery, time, ancient. Fuck it. Sometimes you just need angel porn.

It's 4004, and nobody on Earth-- two humans and an angel, at the moment-- knows exactly why they're counting down the years instead of up. Not yet. The sky is huge and the air is heavy with nectar and the sweetness of overabundant fruit decaying in the lush grass. The angel beams like an excited Child (not that anybody knows what children are yet, either) as a fat, fuzzy Bee bumbles peacefully past his face, leaving a dusting of gold pollen on his eyelashes.

He's distracted, and almost misses it: the parting of lush grasses, the hiss of scales over earth, and the flash of a thick, muscular coil through the undergrowth. Sunlight shining off scales in a shade so deeply tinted that they're nearly black.

He never does end up reporting the Serpent.

*

It's 3620, though that's not what the Sumerians would call it-- but in another three millennia, people will. Aziraphale is less concerned with calendars than with what he's trying to explain to the scholars clustered around him. Some look askance at the sharpened reed in his hand and the wet clay under his fingernails and on his cheek, but most of them are staring very intently at the careful series of wedge-shaped marks Aziraphale has pressed into his tablet.

He knows the system hasn't been perfected yet, not by any means, but Aziraphale's been thinking about it for almost two hundred years now and he's decided it's about time people learned to start leaving a history of themselves. There are getting to be so many of them that he can't keep track of them all anymore, something that he never thought possible before. And besides, humans have that indefinable _something_ about them, that spark of Knowledge that hasn't faded in the generations since Eve. Who knows? They might even be able to help Aziraphale fine tune his system.

He has only seconds of warning before it happens. From across the dusty street, something _pulls_ at him, pulls on a plane of reality that no human can or ever has touched. Startled, he looks up sharply. Gabriel didn't _call_ to say anybody was visiting, and it would have been nice if they'd had the courtesy to at least let him know to set aside an afternoon, rather than interrupting him in the middle of revolutionising human history.

The woman is taller and stronger-limbed than any of the men in the city, with high-boned Akkadian features, and she moves through the crowd towards him with startling grace. Strangest of all is the way she dresses, flouting the usual sheepskin skirt for a bizarrely conservative robe that sweeps from shoulders to mid-calf. It should be stiflingly hot in the Sumerian sun, but she doesn't appear to be sweating at all. Long strands of gold chain and semi-precious stones hang over her face from the elaborate ornaments in her hair, clicking and flashing over her forehead and eyes.

Distracted by the oddity, Aziraphale has only a moment to register how eeriely serpentine the woman's movements are before she's upon him, sharp fingernails digging hard into the soft flesh of his upper arms. It's only then that he finally sees the bright gold eyes behind the swaying curtain of beaded ornaments, and by then it's too late.

The Serpent apparently hasn't given up its fangs, either.

The tablet falls, and wet clay spatters across the dusty ground.

*

It's 1284 and sunlight refracts blue into Aziraphale's face.

"What are those things?" he demands crossly, of the delicate metal contraption perched on Crowley's nose.

"Eyeglasses," Crowley says happily, fiddling with the black silk ribbon that holds them on his face. Through lenses of blue Venetian glass, his eyes are vividly green. "Love to chat, angel, but I've already got a lunch date with this Durante kid." (1)

He smacks a friendly kiss on Aziraphale's mouth and saunters out, and Aziraphale is left standing alone in Crowley's opulent room, fiddling irritably with a spare pair of spectacles on Crowley's desk and trying not to think about how much he actually rather likes them.

*

It's 1832, and Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley's ear, "Won't you take those off, Crowley?"

Muzzy with sleep, Crowley stirs sluggishly beneath his dusty sheets. His body's already awake where it counts, though, which Aziraphale thinks is just as well, seeing as the last time he saw Crowley, the demon was running chalk-faced out the door with his shirttails flapping and trousers half open before Aziraphale could figure out what he'd done _wrong_ , and that had been nearly thirty years ago.

Aziraphale runs a hand down Crowley's sheet-covered thigh again, rewarded with another somnolent shift. He trails his fingertips under the collar of Crowley's soft linen nightshirt, plucking it, peeling it back, and growing more confident as he feathers kisses over Crowley's face that the demon starts arching languidly into. He's determined to get it right this time, determined to coax and cherish and go as slow as the dear skittish demon needs him to, and it's going much better than Aziraphale had imagined based on Crowley's reaction last time they tried this--

Until Crowley suddenly comes completely awake. He goes rigid and rips away, slamming at Aziraphale with his dust-filled pillow. "Don't!" he shrieks, wild-eyed as he yanks the collar of his linen shirt back up. "Don't you _dare_ \--"

"My _dear_ boy, I thought you--"

" _Out_!"

The nearest thing to hand crashes into the wall over Aziraphale's head, and shards of blue Venetian glass litter the floor.

*

It's the eleventh day of year 1.

"You know we don't have to do this, dear boy," Aziraphale calls. It takes a massive effort to stay in the armchair where Crowley put him, twisting his hands anxiously in his lap. He's only recently come to cherish Crowley more than ever before, and he doesn't want this to end in disaster for another thirty or hundred and fifty years. "If you don't like it, that's perfectly all right. I really shouldn't, anyway."

"No," says Crowley's voice, muffled through the door of the adjacent room. It's too hesitant. "Are... are you still sitting?"

"Yes. But maybe we've moved too fast, maybe-- it's only been a couple centuries since we first-- you know, _tried_ \-- and maybe you're just not ready for it. We can wait for another few decades if you'd like."

Aziraphale sounds overly nervous even to his own ears, but what he doesn't hear is Crowley rebuking him for 'dithering'. A bee bumbles in his stomach. He's not even sure _he_ 's ready for this, with the way his poor confused body is lusting and worrying at the same time.

The door opens. Crowley steps out, completely naked, his gaze anywhere but Aziraphale. He's pale and lean with skinny ankles and bony clavicles, and he's perfect and breathtaking and _normal_. Looking like a man on the gallows, he crosses the room. Aziraphale can't breathe.

"Crowley--"

Then, right in front of him, Crowley turns around, and Aziraphale understands. Crowley's back is sleek with scales, a virulent, glistening trail of them over the knobs of his spine that vanishes like a tantalising mirage into the cleft of his buttocks. They're poisonously purple and edged with bruise-black-- dangerous, foreign. Not human, and not angelic, either.

"I'm always afraid I'll forget how to turn back," Crowley says, too thinly.

"Oh, my _dear_ ," Aziraphale breathes, slipping hands around Crowley's middle and gently pulling him down into Aziraphale's lap. Aziraphale presses his face to the nape of Crowley's neck, kisses him chastely there, breathes warmly into his hair and holds him close. Crowley shudders, shaking with tension. "Was that all?"

Crowley moans out loud, rolling his hips back into Aziraphale's groin, and just like that the worry burns away in an explosion of heat and relief. Suddenly it's frantic and desperate and fierce, both of them becoming keenly aware of a need they've waited nearly two centuries to sate.

Crowley writhes as Aziraphale strokes his chest and caresses his inner thighs and places wet, sloppy kisses on his throat, leaving a hot red pattern of marks. There's buttons fumbled open and a spill of conjured oil and Crowley's legs spread wide against the armchair's sides, still facing backwards in Aziraphale's lap. It's a tight fit in the chair but Aziraphale wants to be tight, want to be together, wants to be inside the skin Crowley has entrusted him with. Still mostly clothed but for his rather destroyed trousers, he feels dizzy as his body throbs with need.

Crowley's fingers claw deep into the chair's overstuffed arms, rending the fabric open. Aziraphale slides slick fingers in and out, hasty and fervent, and the scales glisten as Crowley's back bows in pleasure, chest thrusting out and spine dipping sinuously. It takes an effort not to pray out loud, but Aziraphale settles for a gasped word of Arabic. Crowley keens when Aziraphale finds the end of those vanishing scales and thrusts in, screams when Aziraphale bites his neck, sobs just once when Aziraphale wraps a hand around his bobbing cock and praises hotly, "So beautiful."

Shuddering and wailing, Crowley spills on Aziraphale's thigh, stripe after stripe of white spattering the leg of his trousers. It's filthy, but Aziraphale doesn't think twice about rocking Crowley forward, pulling out and coming against Crowley's lower back just so he'll have an excuse to kiss the scales clean.


End file.
